


Sick Or Somethin

by fckyeahgallavich



Series: Requests/Prompts [7]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bipolar Disorder, Blood and Injury, Depression, Head Injury, Hurt, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-11-24 19:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20912876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fckyeahgallavich/pseuds/fckyeahgallavich
Summary: Ian has a really bad low (despite being on his meds, maybe they need to get re-adjusted or something), spending days in bed. Mickey is taking care of him and everything else during that time. But then Mickey stumbles in the kitchen and hits his head on the counter. He is lying on the floor for hours, nobody notices because beside of Ian there is nobody in the house. Maybe Ian hears it but can't get out of bed or he doesn't hear it, it is up to you. When Mickey wakes up again he has a severe concussion. He is confused and hurting but manages to get upstairs into bed next to Ian, who is sleeping. When Ian wakes up he sees Mickey sleeping next to him, blood and puke on the pillow. When he tries to wake him up, it is almost impossible and when he is finally half awake, he isn't making any sense. Ian is worried and manages somehow to get help despite his low. After Mickey gets treated for his concussion, they have a heartfelt conversation because Ian's health matters, but so does Mickey's.





	Sick Or Somethin

Standing from the doorway of the bathroom, Mickey didn’t know how he’d missed it… And it took everything in himself not to beat himself up for it. This wasn’t about him, this was about Ian.

The fucking meds needed to be balanced again. He must’ve gained some weight or something — Come to think of it, he was looking more muscular these days… Mickey sighed as he thought to himself, _ that must be it. _ The lithium.

The darkness had crept over Ian so subtly that Mickey hadn’t even seen it. Sure, he walked around like he was tired and needed a rest, but he was working his _ ass _ off, fifteen and eighteen hour shifts multiple days a week! _ Of course _ he was tired! So… When he’d rolled out of bed this morning, Mickey hadn’t even realized that Ian was still in it. Just as he did when he was ill, whether from a med imbalance or from so much as a slightly more-severe-than-moderate cold, Ian had burrowed under all of their blankets and cocooned. Mickey hadn’t even realized Ian was still fuckin _ home _ until he heard the toilet flush upstairs. Thinking one of the kids were playing truant, Mickey darted up the stairs ready to get parental and shit when he saw his partner… _ His _fucking Ian sitting on the filthy tiled bathroom floor.

“Ian? What — ?” Mickey had to shake his head and pause to find his words. Ian kept his eyes fixed on his freckled knees. “What’re you still doin home?”

“I’m off today,” Ian mumbled simply.

“You are?” Mickey reviewed their weekly scheduled in his head, wracking his brain to make sure that was true.

“Well… I am now,” Ian grumbled resentfully.

“You can’t just ditch work, man. You feelin sick or somethin?” Ian took a long time to answer… He just sat on the floor watching his knees, and finally shrugged after a dramatically long pause.

“‘Ve felt better,” he replied. That was when it’d hit Mickey standing in that doorway. He sighed sadly.

“Jesus, Ian. Didn’t they just check your lithium levels?” Mickey asked as gently as he could muster through his irritation as he leaned forward to help Ian up. Ian went, thankfully. Ian remained silent for so long that Mickey was starting to think he either hadn’t heard or was not going to answer. As they trudged down the hallway, though, Ian finally opened his mouth.

“Yeah, they said it was fine…” he said it lightly, so lightly that it constricted Mickey’s heart because that sort of lightness was synonymous with a lack of caring.

“Well, they missed the fuckin mark, I guess,” Mickey grumbled under his breath. Mickey tried to pull Ian toward the staircase, wanting to keep Ian out of bed, but Ian’s entire body weight shifted once they stood beside their bedroom door.

“Ian, don’t you think it would be better for you to get out of bed? Have something to eat and take your dose?” He grunted sharply as Ian insisted toward their door and Mickey tugged back. “You’re a few hours late since I didn’t know you were here.” Ian shrugged but continued insisting that he go back to bed with his deadweight leaning inside of the bedroom door. Mickey sighed in irritation but followed Ian’s lead back into the bedroom. 

“Why don’t we get you dressed, man? C’mon, a pair of jeans and a tank, nothing serious. We can have a lazy day downstairs!” Mickey proposed with… yeah, probably a little too much enthusiasm. He still sucked at not making it sound like he was trying too hard to appease a child, and Ian fucking hated that. But of course he didn’t have the energy to tell him that, it was just something that Mickey had picked up on. Mickey could already see Ian curling in on himself in their bed, but he still turned to grab a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt from their dresser in the hopes that he could coax him up.

But of course when he turned around, Ian was already cocooned inside of their blankets, snuggled into Mickey’s pillow.

“Ian…” Mickey murmured sadly. He tried not to let Ian know how badly his lows hurt him… but it didn’t do any good. There were some things that you couldn’t hide, and Ian wasn’t fucking stupid. It was part of what made his lows so hard to escape, he’d told Mickey once, was the residual guilt of pushing everyone away even after the desire to rejoin to social circles returned. Ian’s breaths were so smooth and so light that he barely even shifted the blanket… It looked like Ian was dead and Mickey had to remind himself that it would take a few days… and then he’d be up and willing enough to get his adjustment.... And then a few more days in bed. Mickey sniffed, brushing his fingertips under one stinging eye and against his nostril to conceal his emotion.

For now, Ian needed to stick with his dose. He left the outfit on the side of the bed with very narrow hopes that Ian might at some point snap out of it (it wasn’t how this thing worked, but… Well, you never stopped hoping nonetheless) and rushed downstairs to get his morning dose, some saltine crackers, and a glass of water. Getting him to take the dose wouldn’t even be an issue; the food, on the other hand, would take some swaying.

Ian hadn’t shifted an inch by the time he returned, but he wasn’t surprised. Ian’s eyes opened at the sound of him entering the room, but not even the slightest glimmer of recognition lit them.

This was the thing that always confused Mickey about this fuckin disease… Ian would spend _ hours _ at a time if not the _ entire _time he was curled up in bed cuddled into Mickey’s pillow… But if Mickey himself tried to get into bed, all bets were off and Ian would retreat to the wall to keep his distance — as though Mickey touching him would light him on fire or something.

He knew it wasn’t personal. He shrugged everyone’s hands away and tossed over in a huff if literally anyone kept pushing. But… Mickey was _ right there _ wanting to touch him! Ian sleeping with his pillow was _ clearly _a sign that he wanted Mickey, but… Here he was, and there Ian was, and there wasn’t anything he could do to comfort Ian or convince Ian to let him in until this thing just… worked its way out. 

Mickey scrubbed at his nose irritably and crossed to their bed, sinking to the edge to be level with Ian’s open eyes. He slid the opened pack of crackers to Ian and didn’t insult him by trying to coax him into eating like a toddler with a tummy-ache. Ian’s eyes fluttered closed and he exhaled as though just _ looking _at those crackers was exhausting him — which, according to Ian’s descriptions of his brand of depression, probably wasn’t far off.

“Start with one,” Mickey ordered softly. He wasn’t a jackass to Ian when he was like this, but he sure the fuck felt like he was. He had to be direct, strong, and inflexible — all of this while his heart was fucking _ shattering _ for the man he loved more than life itself. Sometimes Ian even gave him this betrayed look as though asking _ why are you fucking doing this to me? _But… But Mickey knew he had to stay strong and not bend because if Ian had his way he would fuckin lay in bed all day even at the expense of hunger, hydration, and sanitation.

“Just one,” Mickey repeated a moment later when Ian still hadn’t reached for a cracker. “I’m not fuckin feeding you, Ian, go ahead and get one. It’s right in front of you.” God… He felt like _ such an ass _! The Gallaghers had complained about Mickey’s bedside manner before, but they’d never been particularly good at reading Mickey’s motives, and they’ve never been any more successful at getting Ian out of bed with their pansies and rainbows bedside manner technique, so… 

Ian heaved a sigh and, still laying half on his stomach, pulled his arm up to rest in front of the package, but he didn’t move for any crackers. Mickey realized that Ian’s eyes were closed again and he was practically asleep. Mickey sighed, but ran his fingers through Ian’s hair in what he hoped would be a comforting gesture (for them both), and left his pill bottles on the nightstand so he could give him his dose when he woke back up. Or — 

Actually, he screwed off the top and tossed out his pills into his hand and laid the dose just outside of Ian’s reach on the bed. It would be minimal effort to reach.

He turned back at the door to their bedroom to double check one more time that Ian was asleep, and seeing his back rise and sink under their blanket, Mickey was confident that he had fallen back asleep.

//////

Ian willed his muscles to move. It had been _ three days _ and Mickey had to drag him out of bed to fuckin use the _ toilet _ last night before going to bed because he knew he’d not been all day. It was… God, it was humiliating and… fucking _ infuriating! _

Getting up. It’s something _ everyone _ is able to do. You wake up, you decide, “hey, now would be a good time to get out of bed and get my day going,” and then, hey! you proceed with doing just that. Some people swung out of bed, some people trudged out of bed, some people neatly folded their bedspread over and simply lowered themselves to the floor, hell even people without the physical capacity to stand still manage to get out of bed! Regardless...the _ normal thing _is for everyone to get up to some degree without someone prodding and poking them and guilting them into doing so.

And it wasn’t that he didn’t _ want _ to get up. He DID! But… how can you get out of bed when it took too much fucking effort to fuckin _ breathe _half of the time?

Debbie and Carl each came into the room a few times to try bringing him cinnamon toast or some favorite favorite food item or other from a family meal, but Ian could usually only force down a few bites before he legitimately felt sick to his stomach. The only reason he wasn't behind in his meds was because Mickey kept leaving them on the mattress for him, right within reach and Ian knew that falling behind would just make it take longer to finally get the energy to go to the clinic. He heard Mickey and Debbie arguing last night, actually, and when Mickey returned to the room fuming Ian had wanted to apologize so badly, but he only stifled his tears so as not to upset Mickey even more. He didn't know exactly what they were fighting over, but he knew it was something about him. He hated making shit hard between Mickey and the other Gallaghers. Everyone here loved Mickey but there were some key things that they disagreed with him about and usually, that 'key thing' was Ian.

Mickey had flopped into bed for roughly five seconds before he'd groaned and realized aloud, "have you even been to the bathroom today?" Ian's non-answer was enough and that had just launched another argument between Mickey and Debbie when he'd practically dragged Ian to the bathroom and she thought he was being to rough with him or some shit.

And like a cowardly shit, Ian'd just done his business, huffed in irritation at his boyfriend and sister, and staggered back to bed between their bickering.

So today was day four and Ian hadn't even slept last night. He watched Mickey sleep and cried silently beside him. Mickey always got grouchy when Ian tried to express how badly he felt when Mickey took care of him, so he tried not to open that can of emotion in front of him. He wanted to acknowledge everything Mickey did for him, but didn't know how to do it without somehow apologizing as he said thank you. Even though the answer was so simple, "Thanks for helping me out," the apology always came out immediately after and that's what pissed Mickey off.

"It's what we're supposed to do, quit apologizin', you ain't a burden."

Silently, Ian apologized to Mickey profusely: Sorry for being fucking sick and for being such an emotional drag and that he can't at least give him a warning when his meds would suddenly not be enough anymore. Sorry that he couldn't explain why he could want him so badly and yet not want him all at the same time and so, so fucking sorry for how badly that hurt him when Mickey clearly wanted to comfort him but Ian couldn't bear to be touched. He had to breathe hard through his mouth, trying to avoid sucking back to clear his sinuses and possibly wake Mickey. The dark haired man stirred beside him anyway, his brows furrowing and raising in agitated sleep and once again Ian's chest collapsed as he _once again _fucked shit up for Mickey! A gasp of a sob burst from his mouth and Mickey's eyes burst open.

"Ian?" He croaked with sleep but his tone was high-pitched with worry.

"I'm sorry," Ian sighed, reaching a freckled hand out to finally touch Mickey. Though he still didn't quite want to be held, Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian and drew him close and Ian didn't pull back or object. Mickey pressed his forehead against Ian's and curled his fingers around Ian's that were clutched to the front of Mickey's shirt. This was a rare moment that Mickey didn't scold him for apologizing, opting instead to just lay in silence as Ian released what he was feeling. He didn't say anything else, but his brain was whirring a thousand miles a minute trying to land on something _to _say. 

In the end, they just lay together like that the rest of the night, and sleep didn't come for Ian until just before Mickey rolled out of bed for the day.

/////

Mickey called in for work the next morning, feeling in his bones that Ian would be ready to go to the clinic today. Even though he could feel the rigidness in Ian's body as he held him last night, that rigidness was effort that demonstrated energy, potentially the energy to at least be taken to the clinic.

Debbie tried to apologize for yelling at him the night before and Mickey just rolled his eyes at her, pulling out a skillet and the carton of eggs to make himself (and Liam, while he was at it) some eggs.

"You've got your bedside manner, I got mine. Last time I'll say it: take a good hard look at whose is more effective before getting pissy." She'd glowered at him and remained silent the rest of the morning as Liam ate the breakfast Mickey made for him. Lip even breezed in for a few minutes to check in on Ian and before he even tried telling Mickey what to do, the dark haired man charged the stairs to take a shower. None of the Gallaghers let Mickey forget that Ian's first manic break was.. well, because of him because he hadn't let them hospitalize Ian when they wanted to with his first depressive episode. But considering how many of Ian's swings Mickey has been present for since then (ALL of them) Mickey couldn't help but get pissy when anyone tried to tell him some shit they assumed he didn't know or tried to prove they knew better by trying something Mickey had already tried.

Mickey was a little preoccupied when he returned to the kitchen; he'd called out at work but he still had to think of how he was going to make up for that time and had to decide how hard he was going to push for Ian to get to the clinic, and then figure out how he was going to get them there -- maybe Kev'd let them borrow the truck if he promised to fill the tank. Looking at the clock got him extra worked up when he realized he was doing a fucking _shitty _job at keeping Ian's meds schedule. But as he started to head for the stairs to lay Ian's dose on their bed as he'd been doing all week, his phone rang in the kitchen and he jerked back around to pick it up, expecting it to be someone important.

In his rush, though, he stumbled at the bottom of the stairs, missing the last one in favor of the floor. His ankle buckled at the shocking impact and Mickey tried as hard as he fuckin could to make himself small so he could neatly fall to the floor, wounding at most his pride.

But when the fuck did anything go as Mickey tried to arrange it?

Searing pain streaked across his forehead and a sharp _crack _vibrated in his ears and all went dark.

/////

There always came a time when more sleep was simply not possible. He'd been mostly comatose all week and had no motivation to do anything with his regained consciousness. After Lip visited, Ian had closed his eyes to shut out the outside and try to get back to sleep, but it must have been an hour or longer and he hadn't slept a second. It suddenly occurred to him that Mickey hadn't been around to check on him... And he'd promised he would. Ian's brows furrowed as he tried to think back to what Mickey had said to him as Lip was leaving...

Mickey walked by with a towel around his waist and said, "_don't go back to sleep, you should take your meds since you're up."_

God... Mickey'd done everything he could to keep to Ian's meds schedule, even if there was nothing else he could do. Instinct kicked in to propel Ian's ass forward as though to get out of bed, but the thought of taking those stairs... his limbs and chest turned to lead and he collapsed flat onto the mattress. _Fuck. That._

He wasn't even sure if a fuckin fire could get him out of this bitch. He was just... so fucking tired.

And then guilt came and swallowed his air as he realized, _Mickey was probably tired too, but he kept doing this shit without thanks or recognition. _Yeah, he'd heard the fights he'd had with Lip and Debbie. He knew that they thought his bedside manner needed work, but he was right-- he was the only one who could get him to eat or take his meds or shower or, fuck, even _piss _when it needed to happen.

Mickey had to be fuckin tired of lookin after his ass this week and helping the family out and working and all that bullshit... but he did it.

That guilt swallowed him whole and Ian curled into himself in shame. The rest of his mental energy from there went to fighting off thoughts that told him his greatest fears: _you're not good enough for Mickey, Mickey's going to get sick of your shit, Mickey's going to leave your pathetic ass... _And repeat... and repeat... and repeat...

/////

The acrid taste of vomit woke Mickey up just in time for him to cough it up. His heart raced as he allowed his body to sort through whatever it needed to do. _Jesus... _If he'd not woken up he could have fuckin choked on his own vomit... _Ugh._

That was _not _the way he wanted to go.

He rubbed at his sinuses and gagged at the smell stuck in there. _Jesus!_

He took mental inventory of what he last remembered to answer for why he was currently vomiting on the kitchen floor, and took notice of the sharp thrumming in his forehead and behind his ears.

Fuckin... Great. 

A concussion.

This was _exactly _what he needed right now! He rolled his eyes and pounded a fist on the kitchen floor but grimaced as the motion jostled his fragile neck.

There was no sense in calling an ambulance for a concussion, but his personal EMT was currently out for the fuckin count and the fuck if he knew what to do without his guidance.

He knew for certain that he had to get away from this mess before he made himself sick again. It wouldn't be the first time a mess was left in the Gallagher kitchen for someone else to clean up -- and hell, considering how many of them he'd cleaned up in the past year since they moved back in, Mickey felt it within his right to go upstairs.

If he could gather himself enough to actually get up there. 

First, he steadied himself on his hands and knees and slowly turned over to sit straight up. The late morning light streaming in from the windows blinded him, practically searing his eyes out of his head, and he groaned in discomfort and quickly covered his eyes. His stomach rolled with nausea and he knew he needed to hurry upstairs so he could be horizontal again.

He had to imagine that Ian needed him -- he knew he was fine, he was probably just asleep again -- to get himself to the stairs. He had to push himself with images of Ian wanting him, had to keep pushing through the wobbling and shaking legs as he climbed the stairs. Even as his head throbbed and his stomach rocked with every motion, Mickey kept pushing on knowing that for just as badly as he needed to check on Ian, Ian would know what to do for whatever the fuck he'd done to himself downstairs.

He stumbled through the door to their bedroom and damn near collapsed at the side of their bed. Ian's red hair poked through their blanket and the rest of his boyfriend was otherwise concealed. He sighed in exhaustion and fell onto the small portion of bed still open on Ian's right. Just as he met the mattress, he realized that was the _wrong _thing to do with his injury and his entire head screamed in agony.

"_Fuuuuuckkkkk," _he hissed. Ian lowered the blanket from its place covering his face and his eyes bursted wide.

"Mick... What'd you _do_?" Mickey groaned and rolled over to face Ian, but Ian the fuckin boulder wouldn't shove over.

"Fuckin _may I?" _Mickey demanded. Ian moved the fastest Mickey'd seen in four fuckin days as he scooted back to give Mickey space on their mattress. He huffed in irritation and followed him closer to the center of the mattress. "I went too fast down the stairs and had a boxing match with the counter. I fuckin lost."

"I can see that much," Ian mumbled tiredly. With a groan and grimace, Ian rose to sit up and with tender fingers he guided Mickey's shoulders toward his lap. Mickey moved with him, slowly and cautiously and eventually his head was rested in his lap, his neck supported by his legs. Practiced and calm fingers probed at the surface of Mickey's head, finding a tender spot right where he'd collided with the counter and another where he'd hit the floor. "Shit, Mickey..." Ian hissed worriedly.

"What?" Mickey asked.

"This feels fuckin awful," he replied in a tone that was way too calm for the words.

"Imagine how fuckin awful it feels on this end," Mickey shot back. Ian didn't laugh, though Mickey knew that Ian would have if he were better.

"Should probably check if these are fractures," Ian mumbled. Mickey groaned and started to sit up in resistance but Ian pressed much harder against his chest and shoulder than Mickey had assumed he was willing to. He stopped resisting immediately and looked into Ian's eyes. Past the dullness, the exhaustion, the sadness, was concern -- for him. He could feel the weight Ian was fighting through to check him over... Ian was tired to his _bones. _A tired that Mickey had never known. Ian averted his eyes, slowly drifting over to the cut right side of his scalp. He hissed in reaction to Ian's light probe of the spot.

"Good news is the blood is already clotting... Do you know how much blood you lost?" His head was held still in Ian's hands as he tried to shake his head no.

"I just know my stomach's empty." 

"You threw up?" Ian clarified.

"So... much." Ian sighed in response to the answer.

/////

Hearing that Mickey had thrown up and had surely lost consciousness confirmed what Ian'd already feared. Mickey had to go to the hospital... And his phone was dead and Mickey's phone must have still been downstairs. His limbs practically dropped out of their sockets at the thought of getting up to go get the phone. But he couldn't wait around for someone to come home, he didn't even know what time of day it was! Fuck.... He slid backwards, guided Mickey's head from his lap to the mattress, and placed his pillow against the side of his face that didn't have blood drying.

He had to take his time, and he had to keep reminding himself of what was at stake, but he finally made it to the kitchen where he saw two puddles on the floor -- the blood puddle, thank God, was considerably smaller than the vomit. His eyes traced the outlines of the puddles... He wasn't even grossed out by what he was seeing. EMT experience, and being a middle child in a large family, all trained him to not even be phased by such sights. But he'd never been exactly fascinated with them either... Even as he realized he should shift his attention elsewhere, his eyes just moseyed along the kitchen floor and drifted up the cabinetry, _eventually _focusing in on Mickey's phone. And even then, it took another beat to recognize that was what he was actively looking for. He shuffled forward and picked up the phone, robotically punching in, first his, and then Mickey's passcode. 

The call with 911 was a blur. He seemed to be moving on auto-pilot right now, to the point that he seemed to stop forming memories. Like... did he go back upstairs to wait with Mickey for the ambulance? Had he _let _the EMTs in or had they just _waltzed_ in? He remembered sitting beside Mickey in the back of the ambulance and remembered one of the EMTs, a shorter black man with big, calming hands and dark concerned eyes, asking him over and over again if he was in shock.

"No..." Ian sighed for the fourth time. The man had kindly helped him into the ambulance, he remembered that now. "I'm working through a fuck-up with my lithium." He didn't know if he'd already said that or not, but it felt like he had already made it clear for some reason. The EMT nodded and resumed checking Mickey, the same things Ian had already done--check the pupils, for soft spots or swollen spots, that the blood was clotting, even breathing.

Getting out of the ambulance took basically all of his strength and yet he _had _to keep walking with them to the ER. He kept reminding himself, he's a civilian now, he wasn't in the hospital for work. He was here for Mickey. And once they got to their little portion of the ER Ian could sit in a chair and just _wait. _He even imagined what that chair would _look _like. It would have a white nylon back cushion and a blue nylon seat and it would be right by the cot Mickey will lay in. Mickey might wake up and Ian'll let him know where he is and that he's being taken care of. And, _oh... _once Mickey got checked out they could get an Uber and go _home!_

Well, the chair was all-over an ugly green and the cot looked like the sheets hadn't been changed all day which grossed Ian out on Mickey's behalf... so the image wasn't quite as cozy as he'd pictured. But Mickey opened his eyes almost as soon as they got him into the cot and Ian parked it in the hideous chair beside him. Mickey's blue eyes whizzed around the room so fast Ian was almost worried he'd make himself dizzy.

"I had to call an ambulance, Mick," Ian murmured softly. Mickey furrowed his brows in confusion.

"Why?" He snipped back. Ian sighed. It was hard enough dealing with his _own _memory issues without adding a concussed Mickey's on top of it. Ian was _so... tired._

"You fell in the kitchen. Hit your head. You probably have a concussion."

"Ain't shit they can do about a concussion, _you _know that!" Mickey grumped. Ian rolled his eyes.

"So since we're here, you know that the EMT has reason to fuckin worry, huh?" He snapped back. Mickey's brow arched at his clipped tone and Ian raised his brows in response. Mickey sighed and settled into the cot. Ian settled into the chair and even considered raising his legs on the cot to stretch out... "How're you feeling?" Ian asked, resuming his calm tone, one that he hoped was soothing. Mickey swallowed to clear his throat and took a moment, as though taking inventory of how he felt before blurting it out.

"Parched... an... an' my _head_..." Ian nodded in sympathy.

"Yeah, that's why we're here, man. I can ask someone for water if you want it."

Then Mickey had a little Styrofoam cup of water... then Mickey was taken away for XRays and Ian followed the pattern of a lost ant...

Ian didn't even know if he was sleeping between these burst of memories or... or what. Even as the doctor was explaining everything to him... he could only follow for so long before he realized he hadn't heard a fucking _word. _Maybe because the largest of his concerns, a depression fracture, ended up not being a problem. There was no worry of internal bleeding and the one fracture he had wasn't one that required extra treatment. It was as though as soon as he heard that, his brain checked out. God fucking _damn _him.

He didn't even fucking remember ordering the Uber! And when the Uber got there, Mickey announced to Ian that they were going to the clinic! Ian begged for them to go back home, he remembered that. It was fuckin pathetic. And he hated himself that he mostly begged for his own sake rather than Mickey's, though there also was the fact that Mickey needed rest. But Mickey refused. He couldn't quite recall what Mickey had said, but there was a promise of them _both _going to bed as soon as they got home. Mickey promised that no one would bug him about getting up until his med change settled in his system. And that... God that was the best thing he'd heard-- Well, okay, no the best thing he'd heard was "no internal bleeding and the fracture is minimal." 

Getting his blood drawn and waiting for the results was all a part of the _fog _of the day he was having. By the time they left the clinic, they were both so fuckin tired that they were leaning on each other getting into the Uber, walking up the path to the Gallagher house, and climbing the stairs to get to bed.

/////

After three days Ian was _finally _up and walking around. Mickey had gotten out of bed half a day ago, unable to lay in bed doing nothing anymore. To his surprise, Ian had basically slept the whole time they were in bed together. But he couldn't. Mickey really was a nine hour sleeper. Ten hours of sleep maximum and then he wasn't able to go any longer. Granted, he almost never _got _nine hours, but that was his limit on sleep. But Ian... God, there could be a fuckin contest and he'd win the grand prize.

When Ian finally joined them for dinner on that final day, Mickey clapped him on the back in relief. Kev and V happened to be visiting as well and Kev made some stupid joke about Ian finally joining the living (har har).

Ian ate small bites of his dinner and stuck around to hang out with everybody but he didn't say much. Still, that he was downstairs and allowing himself to be surrounded by loud people was progress and Mickey was so fuckin grateful that the adjustment was taking.

Two days after that Ian was even going back to work. Mickey walked into their bedroom to see him fastening his uniform pants around his waist. When he turned to face Mickey, he smiled a little. Mickey smiled back shyly.

"Thanks for takin care of me," Ian murmured out of nowhere. Mickey furrowed his brows and quirked his face to the side in question. Ian had never thanked him for anything he'd done... He didn't need to.

"Um... Thanks for callin EMS... makin sure I didn't seriously hurt myself." Ian's eyes softened and sadness crossed them. He took a step toward him and was tempted to take his hand, but didn't want to make this already uncomfortably emotional conversation _more _emotional.

"I'm just..." Ian sighed, face collapsing and Mickey knew exactly where his mind was headed.

_"Hey,_" Mickey said this low and stern, commanding Ian's attention and regard. "It ain't your fault. And you did everything you could. We took care of _each other._ Like..." He took a deep breath, suddenly remembering how he'd defined 'love' to Ian so many years ago. "It's what we're supposed to do, you know... Take care of each other." Ian's expression still held that sadness. This was something he was going to have to find a way to get over. It wasn't his fault and Ian did everything he could for him. A freckled hand cupped his face and Mickey smiled as Ian lowered a kiss to his lips. They both smiled as they pulled back.

"I just keep thinking about... about how hard I had to _push _myself to do it and," he sighed. Mickey waited patiently for him to finish his thought. "And a lot of my thoughts were... _selfish. So, so selfish." _Mickey wanted to know what the fuck he was talking about... but he also didn't want Ian to focus on this shit. It was just going to make it harder for him to bounce back. Mickey raised his hand to Ian's cheek this time, directing his line of sight to his -- green to blue.

"You did _great._ And we're both fine. It was shitty timing, but it's _never good _timing to get sick or hurt." Ian nodded.

"And we're fine," he repeated. Mickey nodded.

"We're _fine."_


End file.
